Journeys End in Lovers Meeting
by LittleMender
Summary: He had managed control in the car, but when she tempted him into the apartment the heat of her touch swirled up his arm and spiraled down his body, stirring his blood and pooling in his abdomen, a liquid fire. Installment #12 in the Holiday/Next Series.


**Author's Note: This is the last installment of the "Holiday/Next Time" Series. I'm sad to see it end, but I'm glad for the pleasure I had in writing it and for any enjoyment it's brought to its readers. I'm so grateful to those of you who have followed this and encouraged me, to all who have read and all who took the time to review, including those to whom I was unable to reply.**

**Two warnings: 1) This is M. And 2) it has **_**absolutely**_** no plot or agenda. It's just a wordy look at where Jane and Lisbon landed at the end of this year-long trek. Thanks again to all who walked it with them.**

JOURNEYS END IN LOVERS MEETING

The seatbelt sign pinged off and Lisbon flipped the buckle and tried her best to wait patiently for the two businessmen in the outside seats to get their bags from the overhead. Three minutes of standing, waiting for debarkation had her wishing she hadn't packed her badge in her checked bag.

Jane had called her every day she'd been gone—sometimes twice when something spoke to his whims. Their conversations had left her flushed and smiling, causing her brothers to tease her mercilessly. At first, her sisters-in-law had seemed to be on her side, but eventually curiosity had won out and they had demanded to know something about the man who could leave her breathless by long distance.

It was Annie who had lifted her cell phone from her pocket and pushed the number one on her speed dial just long enough to bring up his picture. James' wife, Melanie, had taken the phone with a flourish and she and Frank's Becca had bent their heads together over the screen. Lisbon couldn't help her grin of smug superiority in the stunned silence. When Mel had finally looked up at her and throatily rolled out a feline growl of appreciation, the three of them had burst into laughter and Lisbon had felt like a girl again. She had wondered briefly if that would be the way she would feel for the rest of her life, then had turned the thought over in her mind, resolving to consider _why_ she had wondered it later alone in the spare room.

The jetway was finally attached allowing the passenger door to open, and she quelled the sudden surge of eager anticipation that welled up in her, even stopping halfway up the aisle to let an elderly woman step out ahead of her. She took a moment in the ladies' room then walked up the terminal, past the back side of the security check and there he was.

Jane was standing at the end of the velvet roping, and she knew he would have been warned at least twice to step back. She paused for just a moment and took him in: golden hair, crinkled smile, rumpled suit, beautiful man. He jammed his fists into his jacket pockets and rocked forward on his toes and back in what she recognized was impatience, and it was enough to make her resume her movement to him.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

She was never travelling without him again. He had chafed at not being able to talk to her when he wanted, deciding to call her late every night so conversation with him would be the last thing she engaged in before bed. Of course, there had been the few times he had broken with his plan, calling her during the day to tell her about a new farm stand that had opened, a spectacular tackle Rigsby had made or the review for a movie he wanted to see with her when she got back.

He had spent the time between work and her condo trying to stay focused on the one and readying the other for her return. Missing her, he had elected to spend every night in her home, sleeping in her bed, which had proven easier than he would have imagined. Lisbon was sensible in her work shoes and no-nonsense in her manner, but her bed linens were downright decadent. And they smelled of her. And not just on the surface like her couch at work. When he lay in Lisbon's bed her scent enveloped him. Sheets and pillows and thick comforter were inundated with the heady aroma. It was the reason he had put off washing her sheets until that morning, remaking the bed and stepping out to buy fresh flowers and a few more groceries before arriving fifty-two minutes early to meet her 2:40 flight.

He had checked and rechecked the flight data screens, started at every surge of incoming travelers, annoyed the TSA personnel to distraction and nearly gotten himself arrested standing too near the security outbound. And then, precisely seven minutes past her flight's slated arrival time, she came around the corner, and he could tell she was looking for him. She was dressed in a black, form-fitting scoop-neck, long-sleeved tee, tight jeans and black canvas slip-ons. And she must have spent some time experimenting with her hair judging by the enticing combination of short, loose curls and soft spikes. She caught sight of him and stopped, her eyes roving over him the way they had in her office on Christmas Eve, and he felt his control slip again. His whole body tensed and he inhaled sharply, armoring himself against the urge to move toward her, reducing it to a rocking forward and back as if he would compel her to come to him. She took a step, and he let out the captive breath.

He met her at the end of the velvet roping, swept her to the side and drew her close to place a soft kiss on her forehead, knowing that was all he could manage and still maintain any degree of restraint. Her answering kiss to his cheek almost undid him. Taking her carry-on and sliding his arm around her for the walk to baggage claim, he risked a kiss to her temple, breathing in the scent of her hair. Lisbon even smelled tantalizing after four hours on a plane.

"I missed you," he hummed into her curls.

"You talked to me every day," she scoffed back softly.

"Yes, and if I learned anything, it's that I can't do a long-distance relationship."

"It was only a week!"

"Precisely."

He released her so she could step onto the conveyor of the people mover, then slid his arm around her waist from behind and drew her to the right out of the way of the more determined walkers, pulling her firmly against his front.

"Is this really necessary?" she chided him softly.

"The sign _did_ say single file."

"And you always do what the sign says."

"When I can see the sense in it."

"This doesn't feel very sensible."

His fingers were moving against her stomach, and she was having a hard time not responding to the rumble of his voice so close to her ear. When the fingertips of his other hand swept across the fringed ends of her hair against her neck and his parted lips brushed over the sensitive skin there, she stiffened only the slightest bit.

"Jane," she warned.

"What?"

"Watch your step."

Thrown by her words, he withdrew from her a fraction of an inch wondering if he'd misread her. He had certainly gotten the impression from some of their steamier exchanges by phone over the week that she at least wouldn't _mind_ what he was doing. She turned laughing eyes to him, but before she could explain, the conveyor came to an abrupt end, bumping them up and off. He looked back at the people mover like it had insulted him then took her arm and dragged her to the side, near a wall and out of the way of foot traffic. He looked down at her, and she watched as his expression suddenly turned hopeless, barely registering the thud of her bag at her feet when his hand came up and covered the side of her neck just before he kissed her long and sweet. She didn't know why, but she liked to feel him savoring her for just a moment before she responded. And it was her response that drew his heat.

His hand pushing through her short hair had him relishing the feel of it curling around his fingers as he palmed the base of her skull so he could take the kiss deeper. His other hand clenched at her waist then circled to the center of her back and up, pressing her into him. He groaned at the feeling of the rounded swell of her breasts against his chest then ran his hand firmly downward to the small of her back and lower, pulling her against him.

She gasped and pulled away, her voice trembling his name. He caught her shifting her eyes, taking in the people hurrying around them.

"I didn't know you were so modest," he teased, only then aware of his panting.

"It's not that." She raised her eyes to his provocatively. "I just don't want our first time to be in the middle of an airport terminal."

Glad she wasn't demurring about the next step he had hoped they would be taking, he tucked her against his side and headed them toward their initial destination. "Let's get your bag then. My car's just across the street in the lot.

"I don't want the first time to be in your car either," she grumbled. "Too tight a fit."

He grinned down at her unintended pun, delighted to see her blush when she realized what she'd said in spite of her earlier bravado. Bag acquired, they headed for the lot and his Citreon. He opened the door for her and stowed her suitcase in the trunk. Not until he smoothly exited the lot and turned onto the street did his hand steal across the console to take hers.

She looked out the window, more lost in thought than taking in the scenery but not so preoccupied that she didn't turn her hand periodically to respond and give access to his stroking thumb. He couldn't resist watching her, dividing his attention between her and the road, his eyes roaming over her, settling on the line of her neck and the fair skin there. As if feeling his gaze, she switched hands, taking his right in hers, and raised the now free hand to run her fingers through the ends of her hair.

"I don't think I've told you how much I like your hair like that."

She turned to him and smiled hesitantly, fingertips still toying with the ends of the longer strands.

"Is it like you imagined?"

"Exactly. Only your eyes are even more striking."

She took the compliment uneasily, eyes averted.

"But your skull's not as perfect as I thought."

Her gaze came back to his, a surprised laugh escaping her. She gave in easily to his reading her.

"It's not _me._ It doesn't look like me . . . doesn't feel like me." She took in a deep breath and sighed heavily, looking back toward the window.

"And?" he prompted, knowing there was more.

"It's a reminder," she said softly, turning back to him and trying to smile to take the edge off of her meaning. He released her hand and lifted his to the side of her neck, fingertips stroking up and down.

"It'll grow back," he assured her. "Your hair always grows fast . . . only . . ."

She tilted her head and smiled in earnest, and he was glad to see the tension gone out of her face. "Yes?" she drawled indulgently.

"Can you keep the curls?"

She grinned broadly and closed her eyes, leaning further into his touch and tucking her chin to guide his hand to her jaw and cheek. "I think I can do that."

She reached up and took hold of his hand again, kissing it lingeringly before dropping it, joined with hers, to her lap. She looked back to the window, this time her thoughts wandering through memories.

James had picked her up at O'Hare, his demeanor even more sober than usual. Always taking the role of oldest brother seriously, Jimmy had never acted the part of a middle child. She had approached him, her eyes finding his taller form first, noting the anxiousness she saw in his face, an expression she had not seen since they were frightened children together. Once he had spotted her, his look had changed to one of relief then surprise as he took in her shortened hair followed by comprehension. His lips had pressed into a thin line and then, this brother who had always found touch difficult, had taken her fully into his arms and kissed the side of her head, whispering "Rese" into her hair. When she drew back, she was shocked to see tears in his eyes while his gaze searched her face, taking her in. Satisfied in whatever he was looking for, he had finally taken her carry-on before leading her to baggage claim, not fully releasing her until she got into the car.

At the house, they had all come out to the drive to welcome her. Frank, more boisterous and mischievous than the rest of them combined and whom she fully expected to pick her up and swing her around until she was breathless, stepped to her and hugged her gingerly, kissing her tenderly on the cheek. She had closed her eyes, savoring the sweetness of it even as she wondered over it. Opening them and looking over his shoulder, she had been stunned to see Tommy, his arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the porch support of the rambling post-war bungalow, wearing a smirk that mirrored her mother's as well as her own.

She pulled away from Frank and headed for her baby brother, Annie fitting herself under Auntie Rese's arm and little Michael and Moira running circles around her as she went.

"You're here," she whispered stepping up to him. He shrugged and looked over her head.

"It's Christmas. Where else would I be?"

James had stepped up on the porch—the others following—ruffled Tommy's hair then taken her elbow to lead her into his home.

"You're thinking about them," the voice said from her side, pulling her back to the present.

"Mm-hm," she answered, still looking out the window.

"You had a good time."

"Yes . . . Tommy was there. And Annie."

"Guess they must've made up."

"Yeah . . . Funny thing though," she said turning to him. His eyes went back to the road, refusing to meet hers.

"For the first two days they all treated me like I was made of glass—even Annie. Once they remembered I wouldn't break, they still kept looking at me like they weren't sure they'd ever see me again. And—and this was the really odd thing—they didn't once ask about my hair or this." She motioned to the splint at her wrist. "And it's not like my family to let stuff like that go unmentioned." He could well believe that was true. "It was like someone had called them and told them what had happened and then warned them not to talk about it."

"Hm. Fancy that.'

"Yeah. Fancy."

When she had realized what he'd done she had been so angry over his interference that she couldn't think of him without the corresponding _"rat bastard"_. But her family—all of them—had been together, and everything was good, and late that night she had heard his voice asking her to tell him about her day and she'd been too grateful to do anything but flirt with him, preferring to hold him to account when they were face to face. Now she turned to look at his profile and wondered at his continued refusal to meet her eyes, finally realizing he didn't want to face her anger. By now it was only a little irritation, but it drained away as she forgave him as easily as ever, knowing he had only wanted good for her. She just wasn't used to anyone taking such care.

"Thank you."

He smiled at her brightly, and it was as if the whole car warmed. He took his turn to raise _her_ hand to _his_ kiss before dropping their joined hands into his own lap. The rest of the drive was filled with talk: what her brothers had given her for Christmas, a case the team had worked in her absence, Annie's burgeoning first romance and what Lisbon might want for dinner. They made it to her complex, and he pulled into the garage next to her Mustang.

"Jane, you can't park in here. I've only leased the one spot."

"It's ok, Lisbon. I paid for my own."

He grinned and rolled out of his car. Surprise at what he had said and what it meant kept her from getting out while he fished her suitcase from the trunk then came around to open her door. By the time he took her hand to help her out, she had decided she didn't want any more good-byes for a while, not even for the evening. She took his offered arm, and they exited the garage and walked up the path, Jane turning toward the canopied mailboxes.

"Leave it," Lisbon commanded as she slid her hand down to take hold of his. "We'll get it later."

At his questioning look, she stepped away from his side still holding his hand and walked backwards facing him, pulling him toward her door. "Let's just get inside for now."

He had no argument and so followed her docilely, his smile of anticipation answering hers of promise. She fished her spare key out of her front pocket, unlocked the door, stepped through and pulled him in behind her giving him room to reach back with one foot to kick the door shut before he dropped her bags and pulled her into his arms.

He kissed her deeply on the lips. Then, because he'd been stealing glances at her neck all the way home, he started down its left side, relishing the softness there. His eyes opened, and he looked toward her kitchen, never ceasing in his lovemaking, taking in her counter and refrigerator door before switching sides and making note of her dining table, sofa, chair and ottoman (separately), coffee table and wall space.

"So . . .," he began, interrupting himself periodically for a kiss on neck, face, or shoulder, "Agent Lisbon . . . where _would_ you . . . like . . . the first time . . . to be?"

"Bed," she gasped.

"All . . . the way . . . upstairs?" he asked in playful disappointment.

"More comfortable . . . _ungh_ . . . more room."

Lisbon really was the most logical of creatures. He released all of her except one hand and let her turn away and lead him to the stairs. His eyes trailed down her back to rest on her swaying hips, their movement turning even more beguiling as she moved up the steps. On the third, she suddenly stopped and turned to survey her living room.

"Did you pick up?"

"Yeah. I hope that's okay." Actually, he had reorganized her kitchen cabinets, called in a cleaning service, folded and put away her laundry, had the carpets and upholstery shampooed and alphabetized her music and movie collections.

"Mm-_hmm_," she hummed sensuously before continuing up the staircase. Jane made note of the g-spot on her psyche and followed after.

She released his hand at the top of the stairs and walked into the bedroom, taking in the peaceful atmosphere. It had always been like that—she had made sure. Clean and tranquil, pale blue and pared down. Now, on her night stand, a vivid sapphire hydrangea blossom nestled in a goblet she recognized from her kitchen next to a new high-end CD multi-disc player. She turned to look over her shoulder at him and arched an eyebrow.

"Merry Christmas?" he shrugged.

She circled the room, looking here, touching there. A thick white spa robe, size small, hung over the back of her chair, and on top of the thoroughly polished chest sat a beautiful jewelry box made of cherry wood with three levels of drawers below the hinged lid.

"Jane," she said, troubled at the thought of disappointing him. "I don't have enough jewelry to—"

"Well, no," he cut in. "Not yet."

She barely turned her head, letting her words float back to him. "I'm not exactly the fancy jewelry type."

"I know _exactly_ what _type_ you are, dear."

She turned back to the box and ran her fingertips across it slowly and lovingly, and Jane swallowed hard, her soft movements and words unaccountably alluring. She eventually made her way to her night stand, one fingertip touching the edge of the bloom there as her eyes drifted across the bed to the _new_ night stand of a different style topped with a charging base made of the same cherry as her new jewelry box and a stack of worn books piled haphazardly as if they had traveled far and finally found a home. He watched her, gauging her reaction, but there was none, as if she found nothing out of place, nothing as it should not be. He breathed deep, realizing he'd forgotten to for several seconds.

"I went shopping . . . groceries and . . . things."

She looked at him to see his eyes fixed on her nightstand drawer and, catching his meaning, opened it and smiled.

"Not necessary," she murmured, eyes still downcast. "I'm on the pill. And I know you're clean, and Melanie's brother's a doctor. Saw him Monday morning for a check-up and blood work . . . just to make sure."

She slid the drawer shut and turned to walk back around the bed. Stopping at the foot and looking at him where he still stood just inside the door, she tilted her head and smiled at his expression. "Merry Christmas."

He chuckled and when she kicked off her shoes and took hold of the hem of her shirt to pull it over her head, he stepped to her and covered her hands with his own.

"Please. Let me."

She released the material, eyes never leaving his except for the instant that the rising fabric cut them from one another's view. He dropped the tee to the floor, and his gaze roved over her in unhurried appreciation, from her face, neck and shoulders to the pale rose lace of her bra.

"I knew you were wearing something like this," he murmured. "Could feel it through the fabric at your back. Different from the sports bras you wear to work."

Her eyes rounded, and she huffed out a quiet laugh. "And all this time I thought you were just escorting me through doors."

"Well, you know me, Lisbon. Never give something for nothing."

"How long, Jane?"

"Hm?" His fingertips were lightly tracing her collar bones, his warm gaze following their movements.

"How long?"

"Oh! Not sure. I think I remember something after the black strapless evening gown at the fundraiser."

As if the memory gave him an idea, he threaded his index and middle fingers under her straps and pushed them out and over her shoulders.

"Two years? You've been covertly feeling me up for two years?"

"I guess." He traced the top edge of her straps down and over the curved lace that lay against the swell of her breasts.

"You _guess_? You mean you didn't realize?"

"Guess not." He lifted his gaze to hers from where it had been following his touch. "That a problem?"

The sigh she let out trembled. "At this point, no."

"Mm," he hummed. His left hand had settled at her waist, and his eyes lowered back to her left shoulder where his right thumb was already rubbing circles against the pink puckering of her scar.

"Your beautiful skin." His breathing had gone shallow, and she realized she was matching it with her own. "I've dreamed of you. In that pink dress. Your beautiful shoulders." He frowned and switched fingertips for thumb, eyes watching their continued stroking on her.

"The scars will fade, Jane. A year or so and you won't know they're there."

"I'll always know," he said softly, remembering that terrible moment and knowing there would be one part of that day he would always regret.

He bent to kiss the mark then flicked the tip of his tongue across it. His breathing deepened as he softly bit at her then kissed again, resting his mouth against her skin as his exhalations came more raggedly. Both hands went to the waist band of her jeans, and in a sure-fingered frenzy, he made short work of the button and zipper before lowering them down her thighs. "Sit down," he commanded roughly, and when she did, languid and graceful, he knelt to slip the denim down and away. His hands slid possessively up the outside of her legs, calves to thighs, over her hips and past her waist, around her back to flick open her bra, taking each end and pulling it around and forward, his eyes drinking her in as she was exposed to him. With one hand, he tossed the bra to land with her other clothes, the other hand sliding along her rib cage—his eyes following it— to curve under her breast. His gaze raised to hers and caught her studying his expression, watching his reactions to her. Seeing that she was pleased with what she saw there, he looked back to her breast and watched as he covered it. At the sensation of it filling his hand, he closed his eyes and groaned heavily, dipping his head quickly to the other breast to repeat his previous actions of kiss, flick, bite and kiss again. Her deep moan was a match to dry tinder.

"Move up the bed," he growled into her skin, and when she complied, he let his hands run down her sides, catching the rose lace of her panties and pulling them down and off as she moved away. He stood and stripped quickly, only opening his eyes as he lowered one knee to the mattress and crawled up and over her, resisting the pounding urge to bury his face between her legs, forcing her to lie down beneath him, lowering himself onto her and just to her right side.

He kissed her deeply, whimpering at the restraint it took to keep from bruising her. Her body began to rise and push against him, and his right hand went to her breast as he broke away from her lips and kissed down her neck, a series of deep, quick strikes. His back arched as he bent to her, kissing down her chest to bury his face between her breasts, breathing hard against her skin. He needed to reign himself in. He wanted to savor her, savor this, go slowly, gently.

He didn't know where this need to have, to take, to claim rough and hard came from. There had been women before Angela—many of them. He had lost his innocence in that regard at the age of fourteen to a woman more than ten years his senior. She'd had experience, and he was a quick learner, and his father had only raised an eyebrow then laughed crudely at him when he'd dragged in the next morning. After that he had followed the old man's pattern in taking what was so eagerly offered and easily won. His initial interest in Angela had been to seduce her only to fall under her spell when she told him she knew what he was and didn't care. His desire for her had been nearly insatiable until the chase for fame and money and recognition had nearly eclipsed everything else in bringing him pleasure.

But this . . . this need to consume and be consumed . . . He had managed control in the airport and car, even humor and playful conversation. But when she had tempted him into the apartment the heat where her hand touched his had swirled up his arm and spiraled down his body, stirring his blood and pooling in his abdomen, a liquid fire. He had wanted to have her the moment they were inside the door, but this was Lisbon, and she deserved so much more than a hard and fast taking against a wall for a first time. He had thought once they were in the bedroom and he watched her take in his welcoming gestures that the tranquility of the space and the moment had tempered him somewhat. Then she had moaned, deep and husky at his touch, and the fire had roared to life.

"Jane?" her voice was soft and calm above his head. Her cool hand came to rest on the back of his neck, gently stroking, and tears came to his eyes at her tenderness, even as he grit his teeth attempting to bridle the feral urges it raised in him. "You don't need to be gentle with me."

Sweeter words were never spoken. He parted his lips and dragged his teeth across her skin to her nipple, sinking them into her as hard as he dared. Her gasp tore through the stillness of the room, and he thought he had hurt her until her hand tightened on the back of his head to hold him against her even as she arched upward. He opened his mouth wide and sucked hard, taking in as much of her breast as he could while his hand trailed down her side, pushing into her flesh, moving to her waist and then across and down her abdomen. Another scent joined with the one he loved so well, and his wrist pivoted at her crest and two fingers delved into what he knew would be wet heat. She gasped again at the sudden intrusion, and he felt her tense, but he worked in her feverishly until she was bucking against his hand.

He raised his head to kiss her on the lips, hard and punishing, and moved over her a bit more, his hip weighing her down and his thigh slanting across hers to hold her in place, his bent knee nudging her opposite leg to open her to him further. Her arm underneath him curved bringing her hand to his back where she dug her nails into the skin trying to find purchase against his onslaught and her mounting reaction to it even as her other hand slid down his arm to where his hand joined with her and back up again over the muscles straining under his efforts, over his shoulder, up his neck and across his cheek to where their lips met. He broke the kiss and bit along her jawline then down, and when he latched onto the corded muscle beneath her ear and sucked hard, she came, convulsing around his fingers. Unable to allow her time to recover, he withdrew his hand as he slid over her, nudged her other leg aside and entered her fully to the hilt. He wanted to wait, wanted to accustom himself to the feel, to re-acclimate himself to the near unbearable pleasure of this oneness and give her time as well, but once again his urges betrayed him and he raised himself up on outstretched arms, his hips grinding into hers.

"Jane." Her voice cut through the red haze in what was left of his mind. "Open your eyes. I want you to see . . ."

He did as she commanded, and she was glad they had left the curtains open, letting in the afternoon light. He stared down at her, eyes darkened to a near emerald, and she felt doubly pierced as he drove into her in long, hard unrelentingly metered strokes.

"I . . . see you . . . Lisbon," he whisper-growled out through gritted teeth, words playing in rhythm with his movement. ". . . My . . . Lisbon." He suddenly dropped all of his weight onto her, pushing his arms fully around and under her, his pelvis thrusting three times more against hers. ". . . Mine . . . _Mine_ . . . _MINE_."

The last was uttered on a groaning breath as he climaxed, defying any argument, marking her with the word as he had with his body. He knew for all her strength he was heavy on her slight frame, knew he should move off of her, but when he made the weak effort, her arms tightened around him, holding him in place, and he buried his face deeper into her neck, barely hearing her answering "Mine". It brought him more to himself and he could barely feel the last of the telltale flutterings. He squeezed her hard as he laughed silently into her skin, realizing belatedly that she had come once more at the same time he had.

He felt her labor to draw in a deep breath beneath him and shifted his weight, surprised that she still tried to hold him on top of her.

"You've got to let go, love. You can't breathe, and it really wouldn't do for you to die right now. How would I explain it?"

She chuckled helplessly and released him, and he raised and shifted himself to drop prone next to her, his near hand stroking her opposite side and coming to curve over her breast. Turning his head away from her, by recently formed habit he inhaled deeply at the pillow, knowing that at least for a little while sleep would claim him now. She relaxed under his touch and her breathing evened, and he almost chastised himself upon apprehending that he should have let her rest after her long flight. Well, she could rest now, here beside him. And that's when he realized he didn't need to settle for second best. He turned back to her, buried his face in her hair, breathed her in and slept.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Eggs. She could smell eggs. She rolled her head to the side and focused her eyes on her new cd clock radio. _11:17 p.m. Almost New Year's._ And Jane was cooking eggs.

She fought her way out of where he had obviously tucked her in to keep her warm once he had gotten out of the bed and stood on her tiptoes, stretching long and luxuriously all the way to her raised fingertips before collapsing back onto the bed. They had both slept well, she thought, with the exception of, and probably due to, the two times Jane had awakened her, his passion as fiercely primal—and as satisfying—as their first time. She wasn't concerned—he had taken as good as he'd given, allowing dominance to pass back and forth equally between them, and there had been plenty of tenderness mixed with the untamed, both being equal parts of his nature. One particularly creative maneuver he had performed came to mind and, relishing the memory of it, she bent one knee and ran her foot down the other calf. But the movement was immediately arrested as she hissed at the stinging chafe between her legs. She rose gingerly from the bed and decided to get dressed at least to some degree. Not wanting to bother with fishing a jersey out of her chest of drawers she decided that Jane's shirt would do. Fastening most of the buttons, she made a stop in the upstairs bath before heading to the kitchen.

He was standing in front of the stove at the short end of the long narrow "L", intent on the skillet in front of him and wearing nothing but his boxers.

"Isn't that against the fire code or something?" she teased, walking up behind him to kiss the bare skin of his back, feeling the muscle ripple under her lips. He looked over his shoulder and down at her.

"Don't worry, I'll not singe anything important."

"Where did you get food? I cleaned the fridge out before I left, and there was nothing salvageable but three mini tubs of Hagen Daz."

"Groceries. Remember?"

"Mm," she responded, heading to the refrigerator to check out his other purchases. He watched her as she bent forward to peruse the contents, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut around her bottom. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other and back, setting her hips gently rolling, fostering an immediate response in him. His eyes narrowed.

"You know I'm watching you, don't you?"

"Mm. Maybe," she said, pulling her head out of the fridge and closing the door as she brought a Red Delicious to her mouth. When she bit into it, juice thickly coated her lips, and he watched her slide her tongue slowly across top then bottom, closing her eyes and moaning softly in appreciation. This time he knew it was her natural reaction and not some tease, which only made _his_ reaction more pronounced, his hand painfully gripping the skillet's handle. He sighed helplessly at her.

"I don't know how I'm going to be able to work with you now."

She looked up at him stunned.

"You have all of these mannerisms and expressions and _things_ that you do with your voice, and—don't get me wrong—I've always thought them fetching. But now . . . Do you know Lisbon, you have a distinctly, naturally erotic quality about you?"

She relaxed and grinned at him in satisfaction and slurped another bite of her apple.

"Just employ some of those biofeedback and mind-over-matter techniques I keep hearing about, and you'll be fine. Are those eggs done?"

"To a tee," he said as he turned off the stove and slid the skillet to a cool burner. "You grab the plates and glasses for juice." He looked back at her as she laid the apple on the counter and opened an upper cabinet. When she stretched up, reaching for the dishes, his shirt rode up her backside far enough to leave no doubt that she was completely bare beneath the pale blue fabric. Knowing he should exhibit some control and regretting not having the foresight to purchase some sleep pants, he tried to heed her earlier suggestion and cast about for an innocuous subject to take his mind off of the licentious direction in which it had immediately headed.

"What were you doing upstairs? Sounded like a big rat rooting around."

Surely _that_ was an effective mental picture. He resisted looking down at her as she sidled up to him and put the plates and juice glasses on the counter next to the stove.

"I was looking for the Vaseline." Her eyes took on a faraway look, and she murmured in wonder, "I haven't needed it for _that_ in years."

He looked down at her ruefully, his eyes full of apology. "I do intend to take you gently . . . sometime."

She looked up at him with that perfect blend of demure and sultry. "I look forward to it."

He swept the counter and hefted her up onto it, positioning her at the edge and bunching the fabric of his shirt at her waist. Her legs wrapped around him reflexively, and he groaned, reaching into his boxers to free and position himself before driving into her, only to stop suddenly after the single thrust when he realized she was in no shape to be comfortable with it.

"Lisbon, I—"

"Just move. Carefully."

Which he did the few times before she growled his surname and reached around and squeezed his ass, her nails biting into his flesh. Minutes later, they sagged against one another panting and gasping, trying to refill their lungs. She lifted her forehead from the indentation above his collarbone and looked down and past his shoulder at the broken stone- and glassware on the floor.

"I'm guessing that wasn't it."

He stepped back, pulling out of her and covering himself, and gently lowered her to stand on the tops of his feet to protect her from the wreckage, attempting to smooth the shirt back into place, unable to meet her eyes.

"Lisbon, I don't—I'm not—I'm usually not so— . . ."

"Savagely horny?" she supplied.

He closed his eyes, dropped his forehead to hers and whispered, "You shouldn't say things like that."

"Have I _offended_ you?" she snarked.

He sagged enough to drop a kiss on her nose. "No, but you can't know what might set me off again."

"_Set you off?_" She couldn't help it. She started to giggle.

He smiled softly and fully relaxed against her, wrapping his arms loosely around her shoulders and repositioning himself so he could lay his cheek against the top of her head.

"I don't want to scare you away."

"Hasn't happened yet. And have you heard me complain?" she asked as she reluctantly pulled away and carefully stepped over the broken shards, motioning for him to stay where he was.

"No," he sighed uneasily, watching her retrieve the broom from the pantry next to the refrigerator and looking away when she bent to pick up the dustpan. "But you have an abnormally high tolerance for all kinds of crap, and I don't want to take _all_ of the top spaces on that list."

He caught the end of the broom handle as she swung it to him and began to sweep. They were silent as the mess was cleared away, Lisbon squatting in front of him to hold the dustpan in place and Jane doing his best to ignore her head being right _there_. She stood and dumped the dish and glass fragments into the trash then took the broom from him, put things away and turned to him resolutely.

"You don't get all of the top spaces. Rigsby and Tommy have one or two each, and Bertram's got a category to himself. Now—" she reached up in the cabinet again and pulled down two more plates and glasses and set about divvying up the eggs. "—here's what we're going to do. We're going to eat these eggs—"

"They're cold now."

"That's what microwaves are for." She knew he was grimacing behind her back. "I'm hungry, Jane, I don't care about texture. And then, we're going to have sex all night and all day tomorrow if we have to so you can get this out of your system enough to behave properly at work."

He grinned at the back of her head. "Gee. You'd do that for me?"

She programmed the microwave, hit "start" and turned to look at him, her face a mask of mock sweetness. "I'm tenderhearted that way. Pour the juice."

They ate standing, each of them leaning a hip against the counter, facing one another, Jane pacing the speed of his eating to match hers. Three fourths of the way through their eggs, he slid one leg forward to rub at the side of her ankle with his toes.

"Jane? What are you doing?"

"Just stoking the embers, Lisbon."

"Let me finish my eggs."

"I _am_ letting you finish your eggs."

"You have to give it a rest for a while."

"_It's_ rested enough. And besides, you said—"

"I know what I said, but I want to finish my eggs. Then there are the evening's festivities."

"That's what I'm—"

"Not that." Faint popping sounded in the distance, and her eyes widened excitedly. Taking his plate and stacking it in the sink with hers, she grabbed his hand with a gleeful "Come on!" and pulled him to the living room window where he could see brightly colored sparks shooting over the building tops.

"Are those the river fireworks?"

"Mm-hm."

He stood behind her, embracing her, pinning her upper arms against her, and she raised her hands to stroke along his forearms where they laid across her chest. Taking joy in her pleasure over the show, he closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against the side of her head. There was something he had to know for sure, something he had to address. She had been as patient and understanding with him in his presumption as she had ever been, but the one worry that had plagued him while she was in Chicago—beside the possibility that she would spend her week away from him overthinking—was that she wouldn't want to keep him; that any easy first acceptance might just be about her having missed him.

"I have to say, dear, you're taking all of this rather well."

"Hm?"

"My moving in and taking over the place." He was overdoing the smooth in an attempt to hide his apprehension, and he knew when she dipped her head to kiss his forearm and felt her smile against his flesh that she had heard.

"It's what you do." She squeezed his arms to her tightly. "And I knew that—know that. And you didn't 'take over the place'. You made it better."

"So," he let all pretenses drop. "You're all right with this? With my being here? . . . With my staying?"

"Oh Jane," she sighed as she turned in his arms and raised her hand inside his embrace to caress his cheek. "You made me eggs. At eleven o'clock at night. And you got my brothers together and bought me food and had my carpet cleaned yesterday—"

"How did you know when—? Did you go through my trouser pockets?"

"—and you picked me up at the airport, and the sex is great—"

He huffed out a pleased laugh then closed his eyes and leaned into the lingering kiss she placed on his cheek before she lowered herself off tiptoes to rest flat-footed on the floor again. "—and I don't remember when I've ever been so thoroughly, genuinely . . . cared for."

He chuckled at her choice of words. "Meh. You're easy to 'care for', sweetheart."

"And I'm tired, Jane," she said forcefully so he would know she meant it. "I'm tired of fighting this. Of fighting you." She batted his hand away from where he had brought his palm to rest across her forehead. "And after everything . . . everything . . . I couldn't have—wouldn't have _wanted_ to go through everything we've been through with anyone but you. And you couldn't have done it without me. And I don't want anyone else, and I don't think you do either, so . . . so I want to just do this."

"Sounds like you're anticipating the need for Kevlar," he teased her. "Or matching team shirts."

"Look, if you wanted something sweet and flowery, I'm sure Phoebe Claridge is—"

"Enough. I'm with you, Boss. Let's just do this." His eyes darkened, and he leaned down to kiss her. Anticipating him, she spun in his arms so his lips landed on the crown of her head.

"But now you're making me miss the fireworks."

His arms tightened around her again, and he dipped his head to kiss the side of her neck, murmuring his approval when she tilted her head to make it easier for him.

"You . . . really . . . like fireworks . . . don't you."

"My mom and dad used to take us to Navy Pier every Saturday during the summer. We'd stuff ourselves on as much unhealthy food as possible—it was the only time Mom would allow it—and then we'd ride the rides, Frank and I always running ahead of the others. We'd watch the fireworks show, then Tommy would throw up and we'd go home."

"Ah. Happy memories."

"Very. And now I have new ones." She settled against him in satisfaction and he barely heard her murmur. "They work for us."

"What?"

She looked up and over her shoulder at him, eyes shining. "It's something that occurred to me on the Fourth of July when we were at the Presidio. You made a picnic for me, and it reminded me of last New Year's Eve—only it was champagne then. Fireworks work for us."

A thought struck her and she turned to fully face him again. "Oh, Jane," she breathed in surprised pleasure. "Today is our next time."

He drew her close and kissed her forehead, one hand at her waist, the other twining in her dark curls. "Lisbon, I'm sorry. I should've planned something, taken you somewhere special."

"This _is_ special." She smirked at him and somehow made it look dangerously seductive. "And we _do_ have plans."

He looked at her in question, and she laughed that she had to remind him. "All night and all day tomorrow."

His eyes circled the room in the same speculative way they had when he'd brought her home and she'd enticed him to follow her inside, and when she realized what he was thinking, she followed suit. Finally, each one's gaze came to rest on the other, and he bowed his head and swept his hand toward her.

"Lady's choice, my—"

"Sofa," she answered without hesitation, only to have him pout at her, his still extended hand sagging a bit. "Well, what were you going for?" she huffed at him.

"I've always been partial to your ottoman."

Her eyebrows raised and she nodded at him with an open-mouthed smile, recognizing the potential of his selection. Taking his hand, she guided him to the couch and gave him a shove, causing him to drop onto the cushion with an "oof" before straddling him and unbuttoning their shirt. He reached into the parting fabric to cup one breast and suckle the other, all disappointment forgotten. Lisbon unfastened the last button and brought her hands up on either side of his head, threading her fingers through his curls, tilted her head back and moaned her approval in encouragement. Smiling contentedly and feeling that she could afford to be magnanimous, she bent forward and whispered throatily into his ear.

"Next time, Jane . . . Next time.

**END**


End file.
